Experiments and Experience
by Rat
Summary: Stories focusing on the friendship between Holmes and Watson. Gen.
1. Experiments

**Experiments in Experience**

_"Is there anything that you would not forgive me for?" Holmes asked. I have been the hapless victim of chemical, physical, and psychological experiments. All of them endured and forgiven by me._

* * *

**1890**

* * *

We sat in companionable silence for half the day. I spent the time reading journals and news clippings apparently left upon my desk for some unfathomable reason by Holmes, and Holmes spent the time laying on the sofa eyes closed and hands pressed together lightly under his chin. The regular, Sherlock Holmes is thinking pose.

It was a relief to have him quiet. Lately it had been a struggle to retain my composure in the flat. There had been no interesting cases for over nine days, and most of that time consisted of Holmes manically inventing ways to stay occupied. Whatever catalyst brought about the altered mood, I was grateful for the reprieve nonetheless.

Of course I also feared this may also be the primary stages of the descent into one of the 'black moods' he was prone to. Should that happen and he commenced spending days at a time in his room or upon the couch, I would quickly be longing for the previous days of constant activity. It was not so much the trial on my nerves that bothered me, as it was knowing the deep disquiet that my friend suffered at those times.

There were some, perhaps many, who failed to understand the attraction I held to a lifestyle of enduring the highs and lows of such a partnership. Certainly, if living with Sherlock Holmes was anything like what those people no doubt imagined it to be, I dare say they would have been correct and I should be called a fool for enduring it. I held great esteem for my companion's energy and clarity of mind, and considered it an honour to be involved in the excitement and mystery of his companionship.

I never considered my life with Holmes a burden, even considering his peculiar habits. His lack of respect for personal boundaries have made me the hapless victim of chemical, physical, and psychological experiments on numerous occasions. All trespasses were endured and forgiven, for I knew that none of his actions were ever brought about by malice.

That afternoon when Holmes finally did rouse himself off the sofa, he sat up, leaned forward intently with his elbows on knees, and stared at me with specific intent. It was a stare that seemed, at least to my own senses, as though there was a physical force behind it. I put away my journal and paid attention.

I laughed, what else was there to do? "My dear Holmes, whatever is the matter?"

"Is there anything that you would not forgive me for?" He asked very seriously.

I contemplated the answer for a moment, as it seemed important to him. For all my effort to take him seriously though, I couldn't fathom it with equal gravity. "Is there anything I haven't already not?" I asked. "I believe that you value our friendship enough that you would not purposefully do anything that would warrant unforgiveness."

"Dear Watson, if I were to do something with no ill intention, would you allow that it was done in the spirit of love, and not hold it against me if it proved to be detestable to your person?"

"What are you planning to do?" I asked in exasperation. "Will it hurt?"

"No. No I promise it is nothing terrible, and it won't take but a moment of your time. Though I would like you to stand."

And so I stood.

He stood as well, and walked up within arm's length. "Close your eyes."

I can't say I wasn't tense or anxious. "Holmes, this is exceedingly strange. Could you not at least warn me what to expect?"

"Relax please. It will only take a moment."

I rolled my shoulders a bit, took a steadying breath. I felt his hand alight on my shoulder with the gentlest of touches. I could tell he had stepped even closer as I could smell the tobacco on his breath and feel the puff of it on my cheek. His other hand moved up behind my neck.

What was I expecting? I trusted him when he promised me that whatever he planned wasn't going to hurt, but there were many other sensations to be wary of.

I wasn't prepared for what did happen. I felt something brush across my lips. The shock of it made me recoil in reaction even while Holmes hand on my neck tightened its grip and held me in place momentarily. Sherlock Holmes had pressed his lips against my lips.

He let me go and stepped back. My retreat was much less graceful. I stumbled backwards and would have fallen if he had not reached forward suddenly and grabbed my wrist.

My heart was pounding viciously. I pulled out of his grasp. "What is this about?"

His tongue flicked out and licked his lips quickly, and there was only a brief flash of emotion over his face before he steadied his breath and straightened his shoulders. "Watson, do you forgive me?"

I took several more careful steps backwards to put distance between us. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

He didn't answer.

"Is it because you're bored? You wanted to see how I would react? Is it for a case that I don't know about? What?"

"Are you angry?"

I sat down at my desk, where I had been before this whole fiasco began, and Holmes sat down on the sofa. Though he seemed outwardly calm, the fact that he found it necessary to seek my forgiveness at least proved to me that he too was suffering an internal turmoil. "I am confused." I said finally.

Holmes watched me closely.

"You must explain yourself. Tell me why, Holmes." I added.

"To gauge your reaction." He answered.

"For what reason?" I reflected on his countenance and carefully considered the odd conversation we'd had leading up to that moment. There seemed to be a vulnerability in his eyes that he could not hide. Had he spent the entire morning contemplating the action?

He fixed his eyes towards the fireplace. "It was an experiment. Rest assured, it will not happen again."

"An experiment." My mind raced along with my beating heart and I gave myself a moment to settle both my thoughts and my physical reaction. "What you did was, unexpected."

"Of course it was." He agreed. "Do you forgive me?"

He had made his move, now it was my turn. "You of all people should know how to conduct an experiment properly. You do not yet know what my reaction would be should the element of surprise be removed from the equation."

"You are suggesting I conduct the test again?"

"If you feel it necessary."

We stood up at the same time. I resumed my place where I had been, and he stood across from me. I closed my eyes and he placed one hand on my shoulder and the other behind my neck. He pressed his lips against mine very tentatively. I did not pull back. I counted five seconds and he stepped backwards.

His breathing was quick, I could see his pulse racing in the vein in his neck. "Watson, do you forgive me?" He asked again.

"You have done nothing to cause offence." I answered.

He resumed his place on the couch and I sat back down at my desk. A telegram arrived hours later with a new case that drew both our attention for the next week and the experiment, whatever it was, was set aside.


	2. Convenience

**Convenience**

_Friendship was not been enough for him to keep me by his side when I was in health, our partnership will certainly end if I am a burden._

* * *

**1895**

* * *

I don't like to complain.

I have no desire to go on about my aches and pains other than to admit that they exist and are at times quite bothersome. Having been in public practice means that I have spent an inordinate amount of time listening to tedious and lengthy stories of stiff hips and aching knees, sore backs, pounding heads, and every other trivial or horrible thing that goes wrong with the body. It was a chore that I sat through when I had no choice, but now that I have sold my practice and my current interaction with patients are few, my tolerance for such complaints is severely limited. It is enough that I know how poorly I feel on days with rain versus days with sunshine, I shall not subject you, the reader, to such torments as well.

In the spring of that year an unfortunate accident occurred. I fell down a flight of stairs.

I remember none of it. I have read the notes I took in the course of the investigation and Holmes has been kind enough to answer any other questions I had.

Roger Verillion was to all appearances a simple two bit loser who made his money bullying maids into doing his dirty work for him.

Up until the moment we caught up to him and had him cornered and ready for arrest, we'd had no indication that his criminal tendencies ran any deeper than greed. At least not until the moment he produced a large knife and moved to plunge the blade into my friend's chest.

Holmes, of course, insists that though he had not seen the threat he would have easily been capable of thwarting the attack on his own. Unfortunately I foolishly intervened.

I assured Holmes that the next time I see someone with murderous intent advancing on his person I will dutifully stand aside and watch first to see if Holmes is able to deflect the attack and then, only after I am certain the murder has taken place unimpeded, I will step in and do what I can to prevent it.

There are times, I suspect, that Holmes is rather exasperated by my plucky sense of humour.

The one saving grace of the whole debacle is that Holmes was not murdered. Roger Verillion escaped justice (at least on that day). I receive a rather deep cut to the arm from the knife meant for Holmes back, and was then pushed backwards toward an unfortunately open cellar door.

As Holmes is fond of facts and not embellishments, his description of what followed after that was sparse. We were locked in the cellar, I was mostly unconscious with brief bouts of waking up to spout delirious nonsense before passing out again, and nothing remotely interesting happened until Lestrade found us eighteen hours later.

I was yet again thrust back into the role of invalid and I hated every moment of it.

The concussion I sustained resulted in over a month of frequent debilitating headaches. It was an entire week before Holmes allowed me to leave the sitting room, during which time he went so far as to hire a young maid to tend to me during my convalescence. The poor girl didn't know what she was supposed to do half the time with Holmes ordering her to look after my every need and myself ordering her to sit down and let me do things on my own.

Though I appreciated Holmes concern, the forced inactivity felt more like punishment than compassion. I wrote the girl a stunningly impressive letter of recommendation and sent her on her way after the second day of employment. Holmes did not replace her.

I slept often, we kept the window coverings drawn to reduce the glare, and Holmes refrained from playing violin or performing any other noise making activities.

I did everything I could to downplay my symptoms. Of course, Holmes was aware of it anyway. He sees too much of the world and in quiet moments he has a habit of making a study of me in particular, but I did my best to assure him that I was recovering as expected (I did expect it to be a long and gruelling recovery so yes I was completely honest).

But how does one hide a sudden bout of dizziness, or distracted thinking?

Holmes even took to writing notes and leaving them behind when he went out for the day. He wrote down his client's name, specific details of what he intended to do, and when he expected to return. I piled the notes on my desk along with all the other correspondence I received and intended to sort through sometime in the future when I could focus my eyes well enough to read and not induce a blinding headache as a result.

All of it only amount to extreme frustration on my part. I could not seem to sleep for more than four hours at a time without waking up, I couldn't place anything down without losing track of it moments later, I couldn't focus enough to read or write. I couldn't do anything more useful than sit around and do absolutely nothing at all.

I felt useless.

Holmes returned from his absence less than a year ago and his desire to include me in his life once again came as a welcome surprise. I was only too happy to oblige. I missed my friend very much and even without the lure of interesting new cases, I would have been pleased to simply be in his company once again.

That our partnership should end yet again was a terrible fear of mine. It had already been proven that I was expendable. Friendship was not been enough for him to keep me by his side when I was in health, our partnership will certainly end if I am a burden.

My sense of urgency increased as more time passed and my condition stubbornly refused to improve at no faster than a snails pace. As I could not be counted on to watch Holmes back in dangerous situations I insisted that he at least request Inspector Lestrade loan him one of the young yarders when he suspected the case may turn violent.

I found myself growing more desperate every day. I absolutely could not risk being left behind again.

Finally, after much consideration, Holmes did agree to have me rejoin him but only on investigations he felt confident would be entirely inactive and tedious.

Danger can not always be anticipated. For example; the case of the frightened fiance. It had gone well. Spectacularly well if you consider Holmes saved a woman's life as a result of it. It turned out that her suitor had hired a thug to frighten her so that he could play the hero and thus in his mind erase any doubts he might have of her affections.

He'd been immensely disappointed when she came to Holmes with her concerns. He'd even gone so far to pay the thug to physically attack her to diminish her confidence. It was a despicable business but the woman is now safe and able to pursue other interests. I will get around to transcribing my notes on that case another time.

We had the former suitor, Gregory Patkins, subdued in the garden shed of his fathers estate. Scotland Yard was on their way. The man gave every indication of being thoroughly cowed. Unexpectedly, Gregory Patkins suddenly pushed Holmes backwards and headed towards the side door to make his escape.

As often happens, not without design, I managed to blend in with the background. It is a tactic I use often, and much to my own amusement. If the enemy does not consider you a threat, it is much easier to get the drop on them.

I tackled him, sending us both crashing into the wall. He delivered a painful blow to my abdomen with his knee that sent me rolling off to the side and we tumbled together in what must have been a somewhat comical looking wrestling match. My head proved to be my downfall yet again when Gregory pushed me against the floor, but the struggle gave Holmes enough time to get back on his feet and knock the man senseless with a well placed blow to the jaw. I remained on the floor for a minute longer blinking the stars out of my eyes.

Once Gregory Patkins was satisfactorily tied up and out of the way, Holmes knelt by my side and offered me a hand up.

"I knew I should have left you at home tonight. Are you well?"

"Well enough." I answered.

"Return to Baker Street and I will see you there once the Yard has come to collect their newest prize."

"I will wait with you for the Yard to arrive first." I insisted and remained sitting. In truth I knew I was not yet ready to stand and wished to have a bit more time to recover being attempting to do so. Reinforcements came, and while Holmes was involved in explaining his deductions to the officers I silently took my leave.

The failure felt crushing. Even the small part I did play in subduing Gregory Patkins had proved to be beyond my abilities. I found a cab to take me back to Baker Street and I arrived home, looked at the staircase looming before me, and felt a sudden weariness so heavy that I was entirely overwhelmed.

I sat on the step and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. Only for a moment.

And the next thing I knew Mrs Hudson was hovering over me. "Mr Watson." She stood a few feet back, frowning.

I started awake and remembered where I was. The stairway. Wonderful. I struggled to stand, holding the wall for balance.

"Have you been into the cups, Doctor Watson?"

"No, Mrs Hudson." I assured her. I sighed and steeled myself for taking a step, but as I did my vision blurred and I nearly fell.

"Are you ill? Shall I fetch someone for you?"

"Just tired, Mrs Hudson. I am fine." Holding fast to the railing I managed to not fall over. I took a step. Sixteen left to go.

She huffed a breath. "Does Mr Holmes know you are out and wandering around like this?"

"I am perfectly well, thank you." Another step.

"Should I make you some tea."

"No thank you, Mrs Hudson."

When I did make it up to our rooms, I closed the door in relief and lowered myself down to the floor. I closed my eyes yet again and made the irrational yet entirely necessary decision that the floor was the perfect place to take a rest. Again, only for a moment.

That was where I stayed.

Only to be woken up yet again what felt like moments later. Holmes. He knelt in front of me, a hand on my shoulder.

The room was dark and lit only by the lamp that Holmes had placed on the floor beside him. The air was cold.

"Watson." He was watching me intently, and I felt a great rush of embarrassment at being caught in such a position. "You are on the floor." He said. He detested when people stated the obvious. His voice sounded strained, kind of breathy and I worried another altercation happened after I left. "Should I fetch a doctor?"

Why would Holmes need a doctor? "Are you injured?" I asked. "I can help you, Holmes."

He stared at me silently, and again I worried.

"Holmes?" I asked

"I am fine. You are on the one on the floor." He explained. It was perplexing how he seemed intent on committing the sins of logical thinking he accused others of.

I took a steadying breath and pushed myself up to my feet to lean against the wall. His hand hovered inches from my arm, ready to help and perhaps not knowing how to bridge that gap into physical contact. The entire scenario must have been dreadfully uncomfortable for him to endure. He is not a fan of dramatics unless it has some kind of theatrical merit.

He did take my arm carefully as I made my way to the couch and sat down. "Another concussion?"

"I'm fine." I assured him.

"I apologise, I did not realise you were suffering."

"I wasn't." I assured him. "I'm not."

"Mrs Hudson told me she found you sleeping on the stairs."

"Resting."

He leaned in closer and inspected my head. His face was so close I could feel his breath on my cheek, and his dexterous fingers gently probed my skull. When he found the spot at the back where Patkins had smashed my head into the floor, the sudden onslaught of pain felt like a hammer driving nails into my eyes.

He flinched nearly as badly as I did and backed away. "It is the same spot where you were injured previously. You will have a nasty lump but I do not think it will need to be bandaged."

"Please do not concern yourself." I assured him.

He sat beside me close enough that our shoulders touched. It was a strangely intimate pose and he rested one hand on the top thigh. "I am trying." He said softly. It was nearly a whisper.

It may have been the head injury slowing my thought process but in this case I don't think it was because I still don't quite understand what he was attempting to convey. I was genuinely confused. "I do not wish to be an inconvenience."

"I know." Holmes answered seriously. "Watson, how do I demonstrate that it is not your convenience that I value." He lowered his head for a moment.

Holmes continued. "Watson, I find it difficult to act as though I do not have feelings whereas what I actually have are too many."

The heat coming from Holmes sitting at my side was in stark contrast to the late night chill in the room and I found myself leaning into him, and oddly enough I felt him adjust to fit more comfortably against me. "Thank you, Holmes." Fatigue overwhelmed me and I closed my eyes. It felt good to not be alone.


	3. Blood and Grief

**Blood and Grief**

_The world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine._

* * *

**1886**

* * *

There are some days that feel like a gift. The sky is blue and there are no clouds. The breeze is soft and cool. It seems as though on those rare and perfect days that nothing unfortunate could ever come to pass.

That is a fantasy. People suffer whether the sun is shining or it is not. Children die of starvation in our streets while the wealthy feed their table scraps to their spoiled little dogs. The world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.

As I walked I focused my thoughts on the beautiful weather. I was determined not to waste my thoughts on Sherlock Holmes.

It is not uncommon for us to disagree, but usually we can do so in a more civilised manner than what transpired over breakfast. The blame is my own as I am fully aware that Holmes was simply doing what he always does and I can not blame him for being himself. It is I who acted out of character.

The situation was this; Holmes had draped his news paper clippings all over my arm chair and drank all but a tiny leftover of tea. It was nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before. It was nothing I had taken exceptional issue with in the past. However, I'd already had a bad night and very little sleep. I'd made my way downstairs with certain expectations. I expected to have a chair to sit in and a cup of tea to drink, really, is that too much to ask?

I endure a lot of strange behaviours with no complaint. Apparently there is a limit.

"Ah Watson, I have an errand for you to run." He held up yet another clipping. "It is of the utmost importance that you verify the contents of a certain safe deposit box. You must first contact Miss Charlotte Reacher and obtain the key. I have already written a note and she will be expecting you this afternoon. You will have to leave soon to catch the train."

"I have other plans today, Holmes." I attempted to explain.

He waved his hand dismissively. "You could not possibly be doing something more important than this."

"Then perhaps you should consider doing it yourself." I replied.

He laughed. "I am much too busy today. My time is much better spent occupied with more significant matters."

At least I knew at what level of import he considered my agenda. "I have had these plans set for over a week now and I am not willing to rearrange them. Perhaps I could help you tomorrow?"

"It is imperative that this task be done today." He retorted. "You will simply have to send your regrets and reschedule your lunch date."

"No, I will not." I gathered up the clippings on my chair and unceremoniously dropped them on the floor at his feet.

"Watson?"

"This is my chair." I pointed at the chair as though it weren't obvious what I was talking about. I sat down.

Little else was said the remainder of the morning. There was no more mention of the errand Holmes had wished me to undertake.

An hour later I set out for the veterans legion to meet my friend, and we spent a fine afternoon reminiscing on the early days we'd served together. It was an afternoon filled with friendship and laughter, and I am content to say that my thoughts strayed to Holmes only rarely.

It was on my home from that visit that I return to the beginning of this account. I remember thinking the weather could not have been more perfect, and I considered taking an extra detour to walk around the park before venturing back home and having to contend with my contentious roommate once again.

I had just passed a small mending shop, I remember thinking I must bring my jacket in to get the inner pocket repaired. A couple walked ahead of me, the woman's hand gently resting upon the elbow of the man beside her. He bent slightly towards her to say something.

But as I mentioned, the world continues to be a terrible place in both rain and shine.

The sudden onslaught of sound was deafening, and a wave of intense heat washed over me just as a great force pushed me backwards.

...

There was smoke and noise. There was a distinctive and terrible smell in the air. Blood and gunpowder.

I pushed back the inner replay of dark times… This was not a battlefield. I took a deep breath and forced myself to focus on this moment only. Was I injured? No. My head ached from where it struck the ground and my face and right side felt hot, what damage was done to my person was negligible.

Others were not so fortunate.

I turned my head slightly as I heard a popping sound down the street. It wasn't close at hand, I ignored it.

Think. What happened?

Someone was screaming. Someone was crying and calling for help.

I did not have to think about what to do. I'd been trained in conditions like this. Different circumstances, certainly, as this time I did not have to worry about being added to the slaughter while doing my job. The aftermath of disaster was familiar enough though.

With a quick survey of the scene around me, I made several harsh judgements. It was necessity. Anyone who had been within the building was, without a doubt, beyond help already. I needed to focus on those still within my reach.

A man only five feet ahead of me lay twisted, blood spurted rhythmically and voluminously from the gaping wound in his upper thigh while his breath came in horrible rapid gasps. I stepped around him. A woman lay at his side, her eyes open but glassy with pain, pitiful moans coming from her mouth. Her arm was twisted, her sleeve stained red, and she lay face down in the dirt. Her breath shuddered as she breathed and I turned her as gently as possible to ease her respiration. There were burns along her face from her eye down to her chin. I pulled off my jacket and tore strips to make hasty bandages. I wrapped one of the lengths around her arm to reduce the blood loss from a nasty gash. I could not ease the suffering around me, the best I could hope for was to preserve the lives of those I could long enough for help to arrive.

A crowd began to form. They stood on the periphery watching and I was only vaguely aware of their existence, an audience was not my concern. There was shouting and crying and I remember thinking, this was the difference between a civilian disaster and a military one. At least in the military there are no gawking bystanders.

I knelt beside another man and I took off my jacket and folded it under his head. "You are doing well, help will come soon." I knew already that at best he would lose his leg at the knee.

I don't remember much more about the specific injuries I attempted to treat, these things blend in my mind with past experience and it is difficult to sort out one from another in the aftermath.

Eventually a hand grasped the fabric of my shirt at my shoulder and demanded my attention.

"Are you injured?" The man asked.

It was a medical student from the hospital. I vaguely recognised him from several lectures I'd attended, but not well enough to place a name.

"No." I sat back. This man had a medical bag and proper bandages. As the relief at no longer being alone washed over me I was aware of my hands beginning to shake. "I'm fine." I insisted.

He nodded and moved on. He was not the only medical student on the street that I recognised. Reinforcements had arrived. For the first time I allowed myself the luxury of time to look around see the bigger picture of what had happened. Everything seemed covered in a dark dust, obliterating colour. The entire front of the bank had exploded outwards. Smoke continued to billow from the gaping hole in the building.

As I stood up I could see there were bodies inside. It was nothing I hadn't seen before.

My eyes drifted back to the man I had seen first, the one I neglected to treat. He lay twisted on the ground with a great puddle of blood surrounding him, he was no longer struggling for breath. Was there something I could have done to save him? He was not the only victim I had stepped around. I should have done more.

The tremor in my hands spread to the rest of my body until I was wracked with with full body trembling. Now that there were others taking over the care of the wounded I took several steps back to keep out of the way.

"Dr Watson?"

I jumped at the voice unexpectedly close to my ear, but recognised the young man who sometimes worked alongside Lestrade. Constable Plinker.

"Do you need to go to the hospital, sir? I can help you over to the wagon just over there."

"I'm fine, thank you."

The sky was growing darker. I wanted to go home.

"Sir. If you pardon me saying so, it wouldn't be right of me to allow you to walk the streets looking as you do. Can I take you somewhere?"

He was right. I would cause quite the fright looking as I did. My hands were covered with blood, my jacket was gone and my shirt looked worse than a butcher's apron. "Yes, of course." There was no where to properly rinse and so I found myself crouched at the side of the road dipping my hands into a puddle.

The constable averted his gaze, a look of revulsion clear on his face, and I noticed too late that there was a small group of onlookers standing only feet away. Yes, it was a revolting thing to do, but yet again, it was nothing I hadn't been forced to do before. None of these people had ever been forced to strip the jacket off a dead body to use it to staunch the bleeding of another. None of these people would ever be forced to carry out barbaric and horrifying indignities on young men in a battlefield of chaos and confusion only to…

This wasn't the same. It was no fault of theirs that I so easily reverted to such abhorrent behaviour.

"I'm sorry." I doubt anyone heard me. I straightened and wiped my hands on my already soiled pant legs.

I followed him to his wagon. "Baker street." I said softly.

The tremors only grew worse and my mind raced with images from long ago that blended with the horror I'd just witnessed. I should not have gone straight home in the condition I was in, but I could not imagine going anywhere else.

The constable dropped me off at the door. I thanked him and bid him a hasty return to the scene. There were others who would need his assistance.

"Will you be fine from here, Dr Watson?" He asked.

"Yes. Thanks you." I watched him leave.

I hoped to refresh myself in solitude. I hoped Holmes had left for the day. I needed time to step back and rebuild my defences. I often felt that he could see right through me and all my faults and defects laid bare before him. My shattered nerves were one thing I desperately wanted to keep to myself.

There was no hiding anything around Holmes even when his intention wasn't to pry all the secrets out of me.

Mrs Hudson, thankfully, had left for the day to visit an elderly aunt and so I did not need to worry about meeting her in the hall. As I climbed the stairs I took a deep breathe of the scent of Holmes strong pipe tobacco. I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment, willing the familiar aroma to vanquish the battleground smell that seemed to be lingering within me.

I wanted to continue straight to my own room to change clothes and clean properly, but the next moment the sitting room door was flung open and Holmes stood pulling me forward. He would be interested to hear about the explosion, but there was not much that I could tell him. I knew he'd be disappointed at my lack of observational skills; an ex-army surgeon should be more aware of his surroundings in an emergency.

A glass of brandy was pushed into my hands.

"There's been an explosion on Groening Street, I offered my services." My voice was steadier than I'd anticipated. Holmes took my hand and guided me towards the couch. With one arm he swept the entirety of his days work of clippings onto the floor as he helped me sit down.

"Groening street." He repeated after me. "The bank?"

I nodded. "I was nearby."

I emptied my glass and Holmes refilled it and then poured a glass of his own. He rubbed lightly on his bottom lip for a moment. "How nearby were you?"

I thought about the man and the woman walking just in front of me. I thought about the man with blood pooled around him in the street and I shuddered.

"Watson. You are injured." Holmes said.

I looked down at my shirt. "It's not my blood."

"Some of it is." He insisted and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. "May I?"

I did not stop him as he undid the buttons and carefully eased the garment from my shoulders and arms. His expression remained absolutely neutral as he examined the extent of my injuries. Explosions are always messy . There are burns, there is metal and wood and shards of glass projected through the air. I've never seen Holmes affected by the wounds left on the corpses of victims we have examined with the Yard at crime scenes. But his eyes are by far the most expressive of his features, and he was not unaffected seeing blood on me.

"I'm okay. I've had worse."

"I know." I felt the slightest brush of his fingertips across the scar on my shoulder. He assessed the wounds thoroughly and collected the supplies he needed. A basin of water and a clean cloth, bandages and salve. I did not bother to coach him. Over the years we have tended to each others wounds many times and I trust his ability more than many of my colleagues. He paused for a moment and apologised when I flinched involuntarily. Meticulously, the wounds were cleaned and bandaged.

I took a deep breath. I'd been so focused on the sensation of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his touch that when he drew away I felt suddenly untethered. The sitting room seemed to swim and fill with dark fog, and the next thing I knew Holmes had his arm around my torso as I leaned heavily into his chest with my head resting on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

He carefully eased me sideways so that I was laying down and then he sat on the floor beside the couch, close to where I lay my head. "I am relieved you are well." He said.

"Thank you." I stared at his face until I realised what I was doing and then closed my eyes.

I felt a hand ghost over over my hair so lightly that I may have imagined it. It was that touch I felt as I drifted off to sleep.

If I have ever found peace in sleep, it certainly was not that afternoon.

The pressure of a hand on my chest was what brought me up to waking and rescued me from the depths of memory I'd fallen into. Holmes chair was pulled up close to the couch where I lay. I reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist even as I berated my weakness.

With his other hand he passed me a handkerchief and I wiped my face. If I allowed myself to, I could fall apart completely. Instead I let him go. "It's been a long day." I explained poorly.

He glanced over at the fireplace, it was lit and the room was warm, Holmes stood up and picked up his violin, he played softly, something I didn't recognize but it was slow, repetitive, and peaceful. The music washed over me like gentle waves and slowly I sank into a more restful sleep.


	4. In the Heart

**In the Heart**

_If our positions were reversed I would consider it no favour to be kept in the dark._

* * *

**1904**

* * *

I arrived back at the flat and slowly climbed the stairs.

Holmes greeted me casually, though i could see he was intensely interested in what had taken up my afternoon. I had informed him that I would be home before four. It was nearly eight as I walked in. "There's tea, but it is cold. I did ask Mrs Hudson to hold supper until you arrived, though I am sure that is cold now as well." He stood up and ran his eyes over me, inspecting, deducing. Perhaps years ago this would have felt somewhat invasive, but with time grew understanding. I have learned to appreciate the scrutiny of Holmes interest, and may it never cease.

What would he deduce? A walk at Hyde Park. There was little else to see, for there was little else that I had done.

"We need to talk." I said softly.

No one ever reacts well to being told such. No one ever says 'we need to talk' without having something dire to report. I was going about this all wrong even after spending most of the afternoon contemplating various ways in which to do this. Sadly, there are certain types of news that are simply impossible to deliver in a good way.

Holmes narrowed his eyes, and his lips pressed together into a thin line. He stood and began to pace the length of the room.

"Please sit down, it is not what you are thinking."

"Oh? Then tell me, what am I thinking?"

"You are thinking something horrible has happened. You are constantly insisting that one cannot make bricks without clay, and yet, you are coming up with possible scenarios nonetheless. How many so far?"

He smiled, but only slightly. "I do not wish to count them."

"Fair enough." I smiled back, and I sat down and waited for him to join me.

"And so you assure me they are all incorrect?" He asked.

"I can't read your mind of course, nor would I wish to. In any case, nothing horrible has befallen us today." I assured him.

"Today. Another day then? You told me you went for lunch with Dr Anstruther." Sherlock said softly.

"I met with him, yes. But we did not lunch together."

"Walking in Hyde Park." Holmes supplied and I nodded. "Are you considering returning to practice?"

"No." I assured him. It was a reasonable allegation. I was still of working age, and our cases had recently taken Holmes out of the country for weeks at a time, leaving me in London alone and with little to do. I spent the time writing. I had at least endeavoured to make the solitude useful if not pleasant. The delay in declaring my news felt melodramatic to me, but each time I took a breath to continue, the words would not come.

Holmes stood up and paced. "Then what? You are planning something, something distasteful to you, and obviously you assume it will be just as distasteful to myself as well because you are worried about my reaction."

He stopped and looked at me closely. "You've been acting different. I did notice. You're entire manner has been different for the past couple weeks since I returned from France." He studied me closely for a moment and then turned again to pace. "How exactly have you been acting different? You have had several professional appointments to attend to, but today is the longest you've been away since I returned. You say nothing has happened today, and so I am left to contemplate, when did it happen? While I was away obviously. You are not injured. There are no lawsuits or blackmailers hounding you. But, there is something you worry will make me angry and hence you are postponing the revelation as long as possible."

He narrowed his eyes.

"In our discussions you've been overly nostalgic over past adventures. You have been writing countless letters and going through old notes. Your desk has been overly organised in a way you often do before a long journey. You are getting ready for something." He glanced over at my desk, indicating the obvious piece of evidence he was referring to. "Preparations. You are planning on leaving." He accused. "On a trip or moving away from Baker street? When shall this happen then? Or should I simply return one day and find you missing?"

How close to the truth he was! I had listened, as wrapped up in his deductions as he was. As usual he was correct on all points. I had been making many appointments, meeting with solicitors and my editor, writing notes to old friends, and organizing my desk.

At this point a headache started pounding behind my eyes and I wanted to never have started this conversation to begin with. I should have just left it alone, what was I thinking to even consider telling him? What good would it do? But, I knew that my silence was akin a lie and the longer I held onto it the more difficult it would become. The truth would out sooner or later and when that time came I did not wish to suffer with regret and recriminations. If our positions were reversed I would consider it no favour to be kept in the dark.

"Holmes," I began, but he did not allow me to continue.

Holmes had already drawn his own conclusions.

"This is ridiculous. What have I done to drive you away this time? It is because of the time I have spent abroad? Must I remind you that it was you who refused the invitation to accompany me?" Sherlock face was like stone, and if I did not know him so well I would have seen only the anger and not the hurt below the surface. As difficult as it was for me to give voice to my problems, it was worse to see my friend suffer such a state of agitation because of it.

I rubbed at my eyes. This could not have gone worse. "No. You've done nothing."

"That is exactly what you said when you ran off to be married. Well it isn't marriage this time, I would have seen the signs of a Watson besotted by the fairer sex. What then? Are you bored? Are there new adventures to be had elsewhere? Have you found a new subject to write overly dramatic stories about?"

"No. I am exactly where I prefer to be. As you said, I have a penchant for being overly dramatic. I spent the afternoon planning out what to say and now I can't remember any of it. Truly, I am not leaving, I am not travelling, there is no woman for me to marry, I am not bored, I am planning no adventures elsewhere, and the only writing I am doing is my own journalling. As you are aware, I've been feeling tired lately. That was why I declined your invitation to go with you to France."

"You are having trouble sleeping?" Holmes asked.

"No. You know I sleep fine these days." I answered. "I've been having some issues."

"Watson, what are you failing at telling me?"

"I've been having some issues with my heart." I said finally. "It is a common condition for men our age."

"Your heart?" He watched me closely and I saw the transformation take place the moment he absorbed the implications. "It is common for men our age die of heart attacks. How serious is it?"

"It can be heard with a stethoscope." I watched as Holmes naturally glanced around the room for such a device. I nodded to him and he pulled out the one I carry in my medical bag. Without a word I obediently opened my shirt and placed the end against my chest where I knew he would hear it. He listened very closely. "There was a mild attack. The -"

"When? Why did you not say?"

"I didn't want to say anything without an official diagnosis." I shifted and could not meet Sherlock's intense gaze.

"It happened while I was in France, didn't it? Why did you not send a message? I would have come home immediately."

"The case-"

"Damn the case. Certainly you know there isn't anything I wouldn't do-"

"Exactly, Holmes. Do what? There was nothing for you to do. I rested on the couch while Mrs Hudson brought me meals. And before you ask, no, she does not know. I told her my leg was giving me troubles. Had I called you home you would have been bored to distraction."

"You could have died."

"I didn't."

"But you think you are going to."

"I am already two years older than my father was when he died. Everyone dies sooner or later, Holmes."

"I will only accept later." Holmes reached out and took my hand. "Tell me what happened?"

"While I was out on some errands I had a pain in my shoulder. But there is always pain in my shoulder, and so I saw nothing unusual about that. However, after climbing the stairs the pain suddenly worsened and that was when I realized what was happening. So, I took a nap."

"You thought you were dying and so you took a nap?" He asked incredulously.

Holmes jumped up and searched the room with his gaze. "You experienced obvious symptoms of a heart attack. Mrs Hudson could not have been home, if she were, you would have done something to draw her attention. I can not accept that you would simply lie down and nap knowing you might never wake up."

"Holmes-"

"You thought you were dying." He pointed at me briefly. "You would never just lay down to die, I know you too well. You thought you had a small amount of time left, so what did you do? You wrote me a letter." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and I could not help but the reaction of surprise widening my own.

"More of a note, actually."

"And when you woke up, not dead after all, you placed it somewhere knowing that at any time a repeat of the incident could happen with more dire results. You put it where you knew i would find it."

Sherlock moved quickly to my desk, I didn't bother to stop him. He would find the letter. One would think that I'd have taken the time to say the things I wanted to since his return from Paris. I hadn't.

He opened the drawer and held up an envelope with his name written neatly on the front. It was not sealed.

"May I?"

I laughed because the ridiculousness of him prying into my desk and then asking permission to do so. "You will be disappointed, it is unremarkable and very short. I will write something more interesting and add a mystery to entertain you."

"Do not joke about this." He pulled out the paper and unfolded it carefully. All too short. He read it slowly and his eyes lingered on the page.

"Your handwriting. Were you in much pain?"

I nodded. "Only the one time. i haven't felt like that since."

"What else did you do when you realised what was happening?" He asked.

"I drank a glass of brandy. You are correct, Mrs Hudson was not home, and I feared the exertion of seeking help would only hasten the condition."

"What do we do?"

"I am doing what I can Holmes."

Holmes replaced the letter into the envelope and tucked it back into my desk drawer before sitting in his chair near the fire. "Watson." He said gravely. "We need to talk."

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I have news of my own."

"Oh?" I asked.

"I have been meaning to tell you." He said. "The life of a consulting detective no longer holds the thrill it once did. I am retiring."

I laughed. "Since when?"

"I have been contemplating a change for quite sometime now."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Watson." He said seriously. "The stairs."

"What about the stairs?"

"The stairs could precipitate an attack."

I sighed patiently. "A great many things precipitate an attack. We don't need to rearrange our entire lives.""

"You will sleep in my bedroom."

"For God's sake, Holmes."

"We will switch. Officially."

"I am not taking your bedroom."

"And I will not have you climbing an extra length of stairs to go to yours. If you will not take my room, we will move. I've always wanted to own a cottage."

"You aren't serious. You can't give up your work." I protested further.

"I have always wanted to study bees and yet I've never had that time. How long do you suspect you have?""

"Don't be morbid."

"I'm not. Believe me, I take no pleasure from contemplating anything to do with numbering your days, but I need to know what you know. You wrote me a note and allowed me to read it in your presence; you are not counting on years. You have thought about it. What is your prognosis, Doctor?"

I continued. "If I were my own client, I would tell him to get his affairs in order. There are some who live for many years, and there are some who don't. I can predict nothing more accurately than that."

"I will keep bees and you will rest." Holmes repeated.


	5. Solutions

**Solutions**

Some things are simply too much to ask for, even from a friend.

* * *

**1883**

* * *

There is a reason that morphine addiction has earned the name the 'soldier's disease'.

I have roughly an hour. I have a decision to make_._

_I give myself an hour because that is when Holmes will be finished with his preparations for this evening's excursion, and I will be left to my own devices to do what I will. _

I could ask for help, but I will not impose my issues upon Holmes. I have followed Holmes to the brink and back, and I will do so again without hesitation in the future.

But, some things are simply too much to ask, even from a friend.

I need help. I know myself well enough to recognise that I past the point of logical reasoning, and so that leaves me in the position to either somehow convince myself not to do it, or to let it happen.

I have been feeling the dull throbbing pain in my leg steadily growing worse over the past week to the point where I must lean heavily on my cane even for short distances and I lost have the range of motion in my shoulder to the extent that I can barely move my left arm without extreme discomfort.

My mind too has become a terrible place where I am plagued with nightmares that echo with memories. My waking thoughts are haunted by reminders of war. A sudden loud noise or an otherwise innocuous smell will bring forth a memory so vivid I'd swear I was back there yet again.

It would be not such a grave thing to take a small dose to ease my discomfort. Morphine is a medicine and is frequently used to treat chronic pain conditions, as a doctor I have prescribed it liberally to bring comfort to the wounded. I should not be so hypocritical about administering one small dose for myself.

The problem is I have been through this before.

For the most part I am used to the way my body is now. When I can go about my day and occupy myself as I normally would, the dull aching pain resting deep in my limbs is but a small nuisance. I am used to it and it does not bother me as it once did. I have come to expect and make peace with the limited range of motion I have in my shoulder and the stiffness in my leg.

Now, I almost feel as reduced as I was two years ago after first returning to London. I assure myself it is a temporary affliction and that soon I will once again be as I was. I can not go for a walk, I can not distract myself with my writing. I can not accompany Holmes in an investigation. A dose of morphine will bring relief. The problem is, any relief I feel is always fleeting and in a short while I will be overcome again.

I can satisfy my need and measure out a dose, but there are other consequences to that. No small dose can sustain indefinitely, the body adapts and needs ever increasing quantities. I have even seen the prolonged use of morphine make the initial complaint worse.

I have witnessed too many examples of what morphine addiction will do to a person, and that is not the kind of person I want to be.

I am more than likely as healed as I will ever be. As I age, each passing year will only exasperate the disabilities I currently face. This is the best it will get and right now that thought fills me with despair.

That is not all, though. One year ago while my mind was swaying and my body free of pain after having found relief through medicinal means, I reached an epiphany. There was a permanent solution to my problem. I do not have to live my life in pain, I do not have suffer the indignities of growing older.

It is not a solution I have ever contemplated while sober.

I prepared everything. I wrote a note explaining my actions and apologising for the inconvenience my sudden absence may cause. In the note I instructed Holmes to use my meager savings towards rent and to keep whatever of mine he would like and donate the rest to the veterans mission. I took Mrs Hudson into consideration as well and decided I had been enough of an inconvenience to everyone around me already and it would be best if I committed the act away from Baker Street where no one would be forced to deal with the aftermath. I knew where I was going, I knew how I would do it.

I was on my way out when Holmes intercepted me and dragged me off on another one of his adventures.

It was enough of a distraction to temporarily shake me from my resolve and by the time we returned I was once again clear headed and horrified at what I'd been about to do. I was shaken enough that I have relied the memory of that experience as a deterrent.

Until now.

But perhaps it will be different this time. Perhaps the extreme thoughts I'd had were only fancies of the moment. I will still be myself, and I will remember my resolve to endure as I am. I am reasonably happy in my new life.

I would be happier yet without the deep aching pain making me clench my jaw and stay awake at night. I could use the morphine to tide me over for only a week or so and then wean myself off knowing the pain will be less. I will give myself one week. Seven days. I will be steadfast and resolute and I will keep to the schedule and all will be well.

"Holmes."

He emerged from his room already wearing the brown wig and glued on moustache.

"How exactly do you intend to determine which company is being used to make the shipments?" I asked. _I need your help._

"I already know. What I need is proof." He explained and disappeared back into his room.

I have used gambling as a temporary distraction to avert my temptation. The evening usually ends with the loss of all but my months rent (which is wisely left in the care of Holmes and locked in his drawer because we have been down this road before), but it works as a distraction. I can ease my body by occupying my mind with other things.

But my wallet is locked securely within Holmes desk and I am not feeling up to walking anywhere further than my own bedroom. If I were to take just a small enough dose to ease the ache…

That would defeat the purpose altogether.

Holmes keeps his morphine inside his morocco case with his cocaine. The morocco case currently holds it's place on the fireplace mantle where it has been gathering dust for months. Perhaps Holmes had already used it without my knowledge. Perhaps my decision has already been made for me and the vial will be empty. Once he is gone for the night I will check on it's contents just to make sure.

Right.

"Would it not be better for the Yard collect their own proof?" I called out.

"They could, but I prefer to see a case through to its end." He replied.

I grit my teeth and pushed myself up from the chair. I grudgingly grabbed my cane and hobbled across the room to pour myself a half glass of brandy.

Alcohol is not going to make resisting my impulses any easier but it might ease my fear and subdue my pride. I've been thinking of nothing but the drug for days now. I need to ease this pain, and I need to give myself a good reason not to.

Holmes can look at a man on the street and know his life story at just a glance. What does he see when he looks at me?

Perhaps he has already divined my plan and is seeking to give me an opportunity to follow it through. Heaven knows my mood will be much improved once I am feeling more comfortable.

I filled the glass again, and again I drank it in one shot.

I could appeal to our friendship and beg him to stay by my side. I could ask him to abandon a case he has been working on for nearly a month. I could ask him to choose between his work and me. I could do all those things but I won't. I can't ask for help in this. I need to make a choice.

Or maybe I can take the choice out of my hands.

I walked over to the mantel and picked up the morocco case and placed it on the table. I opened it. The vials were full. I sat down and rested my head momentarily on my forearm. Just a small amount will make me feel better, just enough to tide me over. I stood up again and fetched my revolver from my desk drawer along with the extra bullets and I placed them on the table beside.

"Holmes." I called out.

I heard an exasperated sigh from his room. "Really old chap, with all these questions I am beginning to wonder if you have lost faith in my abilities." He walked out of his room with his face caked with tanned make-up and cheeks filled with putty to change the shape of his face. He looked at me, he looked at the open morocco case, and he looked at the revolver. He spat the putty out into his handkerchief.

"Watson?"

"I do not have faith in Scotland Yard to watch your back as closely as I do. Take my service revolver." I said. He picked it up and dropped the bullets into his pocket.

Next I closed the morocco case and pushed it towards him. "The mantle is too cluttered. Mrs Hudson asked me to put some of our things away so that she might have an easier time dusting."

He picked that up as well and without a word took them into his room and shut the door. When he emerged ten minutes later all traces of his disguise were gone and rather than wearing the clothing of a dock worker he was now dressed in his evening clothes and a robe.

"It will look bad for Lestrade if he does not make the collar himself."

"Are you sure? I thought you wished to see the case through to its end."

"It was a simple case and I am satisfied with the solution. Scotland Yard can clean up the rest, it is only footwork." He explained. "You don't mind if I pass the time playing violin, do you?"

"I don't mind." I said and moved back to my armchair by the fire.


	6. Solid Ground

**Solid Ground**

Holmes has made it well known the extent to which he abhors the softer passions, and so I am careful not to offend him by the depth of my feelings with a set of rules I have established for myself.  
On the other hand... Holmes rules, if there are any guidelines he ascribes to, apparently allow for watching me sleep in the early morning.

* * *

**1883**

* * *

I am not on solid ground. There is no moment I feel able to simply rest and be at peace with the fortune an otherwise tragic life has tossed my way. Yet, for the moment it is enough.

I have learned the importance of the moment. The moment is everything.

A brief smile of reassurance to a man about to undergo surgery, offering the only comfort available in a moment shared.

The sharp high pitched whistle of a bullet in flight, a moment before it shatters your future.

Moments are all we have, and so I cherish every one I have.

I have learnt to be careful with Holmes. If I ever made known the depth of feeling I harbour, I fear that would mark the end of his tolerance for me. He has made it well known the extent to which he abhors the softer passions. I can not change who he is and I will never make demands.

I choose my moments carefully.

I am insufferably polite, keeping a close rein on my temper for anger is passion. I allow myself to express delight in his deductions and wonderful mind, for that is the closest I will ever be to a declaration of my inner feelings. I follow the extraordinary delicacy of the touch of his hands upon his scientific instruments with my eyes only when I am certain his attention is safely focused elsewhere.

Those are the rules I have learned to follow, and I follow them devoutly.

If Holmes possesses a set of rules of his own in his daily interactions, apparently they allow for watching me sleep in the early morning.

I woke up to Holmes sitting fully dressed on the side of my bed. He tentatively touched my arm with his hand and drew back as I turned to look at him.

"What's wrong? Is there a fire?" This was my much overused and completely honest reaction.

He smiled at my exclamation and I grinned back. I smelled no smoke. Not a fire. There had indeed been a fire in the middle of the night a year past; an interesting story I will tell another time. "What is it?"

"I am sorry to wake you, but there is a client waiting who may interest you. Get dressed. I will wait."

Wait. What?

He stepped aside as I pushed myself up, but he did not leave. That was strange for him and somewhat uncomfortable for me, but I did not ask him to leave.

I have two confessions:  
1\. I am terribly desperate for attention.  
2\. I am more stubborn than ashamed.

Getting up in the morning is not an easy task for me. A stiffness settles into my old wounds overnight that makes the first movements of wakefulness exceedingly painful to endure as my body warms up and starts functioning again. There is a reason Holmes asks me to rush when there is need to depart quickly.

I reminded myself yet again that my body has not always been the wretched scarred thing it was turned into through injury and illness. If only I had known Holmes back then…

Be that as it may, this is who I am now.

He passed me my clothes, and I accepted without a word. He watched as I slowly pulled on the sleeves of my shirt, and I studiously went about my task as though I were not being observed. There is a method to this. My left shoulder does not rotate as it should and extension is limited, this means that I can not simply reach backwards with my left arm to catch the other half of my shirt as I pull it on. The left arm must go through first with the assistance of my right, and then the right may follow. There are times, particularly the mornings when I am robbed of all semblance of grace, such as this morning, that the task becomes more difficult than it ought to be.

Holmes obligingly caught the end of my shirt and pulled it to meet my reaching hand, and I felt my cheeks grow warm as I blushed with embarrassment.

"Does it bother you?" He asked.

What part? The injury, the assistance, or his observation of it? I sighed. It mattered not. "No. Of course not." _Yes. _It was bad enough that I should lag so far behind Holmes intellectually, for even though I am educated and intelligent in my own right it is far from a match to his own powers of thought. Physically, I am at an even greater disadvantage. Though I have had a full two years to heal and I have made great progress in my recovery, in the eyes of society I am still considered an invalid incapable of meaningful employment. One day I will be myself again.

However, this is who I am at this moment.

I have no doubt about Holmes' friendship, but he is a logician, and logically I understood that our association would end if he had a more able assistant. It is to my benefit that he does not have someone better at his disposal and I am adequate as an occasional companion. I have the time to take notes and run simple errands. Even with the loss of my occupation it is a relief to be useful to someone.

As I fastened the buttons the fingers of my left hand started tingling and I found myself making a fist several times to subdue the tremors.

I may have cursed under my breath at the inconvenience of it. I do try and control my temper, but having Holmes witness my deficiency in something as simple as getting dressed was exceedingly aggravating and the frustration of it got the better of me.

Holmes sat down on the bed beside me. "Watson."

I shook out my hand and tried the buttons again. The fingers continued to be bothersome as I slowly continued my habille, and I found myself answering in a tone somewhat sharper than I had intended. "Yes?"

"You are remarkable."

I could only blink and wonder at the multiple uses of the word. "Remarkably what?" I asked, and braced myself for whatever onslaught of criticism might come.

_Remarkably slow, remarkably useless, remarkably decrepit?_ Holmes had claimed there was an interesting client waiting in the sitting room and by now he was probably more than a little impatient to return.

He looked at me seriously and placed a hand over my uncooperative fingers, stilling their movements for just a moment. "Remarkably extraordinary."

It was a compliment I felt ill prepared to accept. I could think of nothing to answer. I can only imagine the shades of red my face became.

"The interview will commence when you are able to join us, I will wait for you in the sitting room." He said finally, stood up, and took his leave as enigmatically as he had entered.


	7. Declaration

**Declaration**

Celebrating an anniversary, 1896 London.

* * *

**1896**

* * *

To the day, it has been fifteen years since taking up residence at Baker Street.

Though the cause for my jubilant mood was a mystery to those around me, they played along readily enough. I am blessed to have friends who are willing to follow my whims on occasion without too many questions asked, and so when I insisted we meet at the pub for drinks that evening that was what we did.

I drank more heavily than was my usual habit and ignored the sidelong warning glances I received from Holmes. I deliberately ignored that he drank very little. Everyone I cared about in our little circle of friends was by my side and I couldn't care less about anything else. It was a grand evening.

As the evening wore on I found myself on unsteady legs, and eventually it was time to draw the evening to a close.

"Time to get you home, Dr Watson." We were only a few blocks away from Baker Street, the night was clear and the weather mild. We took a slow pace, neither one of us in much of a hurry to get anywhere.

"You've been quiet." I noted. "Did you enjoy the evening?"

"You enjoyed it enough for the both of us, I believe." Holmes answered.

"You disapprove?" There was no tone to his words to distinguish what he might mean and I was in no mood for riddles.

"Of you overindulgence in alcohol? I am hardly the one to cast stones." We walked a while further in silence. "You get like this every time." He said.

"Oh do I? Pray, tell me, what am I like?"

"Sad." He glanced at me and then back at the road ahead.

"I am not sad!" I protested. "I had an excellent time. I am completely happy."

"You are determined to be happy. That is not the same as actually being happy."

I stumbled on a cobblestone and Holmes caught my arm before I could fall. "Can we not simply enjoy ourselves?" I asked.

"That isn't what this is. You have performed the same ritual every year since we've met, save for the ones I was absent. It is the anniversary of the day we moved into Baker Street, as you are fully aware."

"I am aware." It was true, I'd taken Holmes out for a drink on this same date every year. I didn't think he noticed. I stopped and leaned against the building beside me, no longer feeling pleasantly off balance but simply tired, dizzy, and old. "I simply did not think you were aware. It is as good a cause as any to celebrate, is it not?"

"Is it?" He asked.

"It isn't?" I shot back. "Why shouldn't we celebrate?"

"Why did you not tell anyone what we are celebrating? Not even me?" He asked.

He had a point. Why didn't I? The answer was obvious was it not? How else could I mark the importance of something I did not dare to acknowledge other than secretly?

"You are intoxicated." Holmes insisted and pulled on my arm to get us moving again. "I did not mean to dampen the mood. You were correct, it is perfectly acceptable that we go out and enjoy ourselves."

"Thank you."

We walked a couple more minutes in silence, but the nagging voice in my head was enough to keep me occupied. There was something I needed to say, and if I didn't say it now, I might lose my nerve to ever do so again.

Baker Street was in sight. If not now... I dared not contemplate another fifteen years of silence.

I stopped took hold of his wrist. I cleared my throat. "Everything ends," I said softly. "It has ended once already."

For once, he waited quietly for me to continue.

"Holmes, I don't want this to end." There. I said it.

"Then let's not ever end it." He said very seriously. He adjusted my hold on his arm so that my hand was tucked into his elbow, and together we walked home.

* * *

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	8. ignis fatuus

**ignis fatuus**

_He knows me better than to think I wouldn't search out the truth and find it out. It has to be a clue, and I will continue working on the puzzle until I solve it._

_(References to my story Experiments in Experience #1 in this series)_

* * *

**1891 Post-Reichenbach**

* * *

Excerpt from The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Final Problem

"My dear Watson [it said], I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed "Moriarty." I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,

Sherlock Holmes"

* * *

_Is there anything you would not forgive me for?_ He asked me.

Good god, did that only happen few short months ago? I'd been convinced at the time it was some mad fancy of the moment, but now I suspect there was more involved than I knew.

Where Holmes was concerned, wasn't there always?

This can't be real. I go over the events again and again in my mind and it feels so dreamlike. Now that the initial shock and grief has cleared and I am thinking more clearly, I can see where I went wrong. It is in the letter that the answers are hidden.

There is a code.

I extended my stay in Meiringen after Holmes disappeared. The local authorities conducted an extensive search for the bodies. Nothing was found but that was expected considering the powerful currents at the bottom of the falls and the size of the river coming from it.

I am now convinced though, that there is more to it than that.

My dear friend Sherlock Holmes did not die on that cliff.

I find it a difficult experience to talk about. The papers were intensely interested in the tragedy. I will be a witness at the trial to convict Moriarty's gang, and I suspect I will have to recount it then as well. I attempt to remain as faithful to fact as possible without endangering or otherwise divulging private information not meant for public consumption, but it is an important story to be told. How dare Moriarty's sympathisers accuse my friend of being a fraud now that he is not here to defend himself. So long as I am able, I will do what I can to keep his memory true.

As for the Swiss youth who led me away that day with a false story of a medical emergency, I explain that he was not found and that I believe him to be an agent of Moriarty. Holmes wrote it to me himself in his note; that he suspected the boy to be a hoax. I can't very well defend his honour and call him a liar all in the same breath.

Holmes lied. It was he who sent the boy to lure me away.

Why would he do that? This too is what leads me to believe that there is more to this mystery than meets the eye. I handled my own search for the lad, and it was not difficult to find him. He was a young shepherd from the village. I questioned him closely regarding his errand, and his story was one that set my mind reeling.

"I didn't know what was in the note sir. It was your friend who asked that I run it up if he sent the signal."

"What signal was that?" I asked.

"He waved at me, sir."

I hadn't seen it, but then I'd been much affected by the terrible power of the falls. Holmes could have danced an entire jig and I'd have been none the wiser. Reichenbach falls is a fearful place, and I did not like it even before the incident that took my friend from me. I felt overwhelmed by the natural violence. Holmes, I recall, had been less affected and I understand now that there'd been other matters on his mind.

I feel haunted that all my insights are only after the fact.

I am now aware that Holmes had known Moriarty was closing in on us. I wonder how many times he almost caught up to us along our journey? Holmes had been careful to keep me in the dark, but I remember his uncharacteristic apprehension.

He did it to save me. I know. My life had been at risk as surely as Holmes had been before leaving London, there wouldn't have been the need to be so on guard before fleeing if it danger was not imminent.

My dear Holmes. That was not the first time he attempted to shield me from the darker side of his work. How many times had I tried to explain to him that I am made of tougher stuff than that, surely my service in Afghanistan should have been some proof. I recall his response to one such argument over the matter. Your security may not be of great importance to you, dear Doctor, but to me it is of the utmost importance. There was never any swaying him from that point.

So, in hindsight, it is not such a surprise to me that Holmes himself would orchestrate my absence if he knew the danger we faced.

The puzzle is, why reference his deception in his letter to me? He must have been pressed with time, he would have been careful to be as brief as possible. Why write out a lie so easily discovered?

And so I must refer back to that passage.

_"Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow."_

I know my Holmes too well to think there wasn't some deeper meaning to this than simply a bad attempt to deflect blame from himself. We've encountered codes in the past.

The three word code…

**Indeed may full you quite the Meiringen hoax you on under that of would**

No, that makes no sense. But perhaps I am looking at it the wrong way? Is there a pattern I am missing?

If I take every fourth word...

Indeed, if I may **make**  
a full confession to **you**,  
I was quite **convinced**  
that the letter **from**  
Meiringen was a **hoax**,  
and I allowed **you**  
to depart on **that**  
errand under the **persuasion**  
that some development **of**  
this sort would **follow**.

**make you convinced from hoax you that persuasion of follow**

Was he attempting to apologising for the hoax and assuring me that he would follow?

Was he trying to tell me that he intended to convince me of a hoax to persuade me not to follow him?

_What am I doing? I must be mad._

He was so much more clever in these things than I am. It pains me to think he overestimated my abilities so completely.

I remember how adamant he was for my forgiveness that afternoon.

_Is there anything that you would not forgive me for?_ He asked just before kissing me that afternoon. He was adamant that I forgive him.

_Yes, I forgive you._ I answered.

Was he planning this deception even then? An unexpected kiss on an afternoon between two friends is one thing, faking your death and leaving your friend to mourn is another. I know, I know, there is something more to this. He would not outright lie to me in what he believed to be his last letter. He knows me better than to think I wouldn't search out the truth and find it out. It has to be a clue, and I will continue working on the puzzle until I solve it.

As it is, there is nothing I can do. When the danger has passed he will come back to me.

And I will be waiting.

* * *

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	9. Illusions of Friendship

**Illusions of Friendship**

I wasn't in the mood for this game, but that hardly mattered to Holmes once his mind was set.

* * *

**1888**

* * *

We sat together at the open air concert. I watched Holmes as I often did, studying his expression and puzzling over his mood as he listened to the orchestra with rapt attention. That we were there at all was a welcome aberration to routine. It was rare for him to suggest such an outing while involved in a case.

I felt his fingers tap on my arm. "Third row, right." He whispered.

Perhaps the concert did have something to do with the case after all, but I couldn't see how. The subject of Holmes interest was a young woman and her husband sitting and listening to the music, just as we were. She leaned against him, head tilted slightly towards him and her fingers resting on his arm while he stared somewhere over his right shoulder.

"What about them?" I whispered back.

"Love." He spat the word with venomous scorn.

"What?"

"It is absurd." He said.

"Why?"

"Look.

"The affection isn't mutual. He is watching the woman in yellow, do you see her?"

Now that Holmes pointed it out, it was difficult not to see. I sat back in my chair and resolutely avoided looking at anything other than the orchestra for the rest of the evening.

No further attempts were made at conversation until after the concert ended. On our walk back to Baker Street Holmes pointed out a bench and pulled me over to sit down. "What do you see?" He asked.

"Less than you, I suspect." I laughed. Various people walked by and none of them looked remarkable in any way I could discern. The afternoon air was cool and a slight breeze rustled the leaves on the trees around us.

Holmes remained serious and so I looked back at the crowd passing by. "I see people going home, exactly what we should be doing. Why aren't we?" I wasn't in the mood for this game, but that hardly mattered to Holmes once his mind was set.

"You can be remarkably dim for being an otherwise astute fellow."

I moved to stand up but he caught my arm and pulled me back down.

"How can someone be so devoted toward someone so obviously unworthy of their attention?"

"You mean the woman from earlier? Do you know her? Why does she interest you so much?"

"Only her motives interest me."

"We can't choose who we love, Holmes." I tried to explain.

"There is no such thing as love." He stated. "It is an illusion."

"All kinds of love?" I asked.

"No exceptions." He insisted

"What of the love of a child for his parents."

"Children 'love' their parents because they are dependent on them."

"You love music." I insisted.

"It is not love. When played without skill I will turn my back on it. When played well it is pleasurable and rewarding for both the musician and the listener." He stated.

"And what of friendship?"

"That my dear Watson may be the biggest illusion of them all. Friendship is nothing more than convenience and proximity. Tell me, how long do friendships last once the parties involved are no longer forced to endure each others presence on a regular basis?"

"You are being cynical."

"I am not. How many friends have you had over the years, and how many of them are you in close contact with now?"

He knew the answer as well as I did. There was only one person I was in close contact with and he was sitting right beside me. "Distance does not equal lack of affection."

"And how much affection do you harbour for these long lost friends?"

"Why is this about me? What of the young woman you were so focused on earlier? You can not fault her for loving her own husband."

"I can. What kind of person willingly wastes their affection on someone who cares nothing for them? It is an exercise in futility. Or client will find herself in the most enviable position for a woman of our society once she is in possession of her treasure. There will be no need for her to cheapen herself with marriage."

"Cheapen? But what if that is her wish?"

"Anyone worthy of her wealth will be too far above her station to appreciate her, and anyone who appreciates her will doubtless be too far beneath her new found wealth for her to find worthy. I am afraid, dear Doctor, that you fit into the latter category of suitors."

"Who said anything about me being her suitor?"

"You do admire her though, don't you?"

"What isn't there to admire?"

"And what if we don't find her treasure?"

"What of it?"

"Would she still be as enticing?"

"It is not the prospect of her treasure that I am attracted to."

He laughed. "Love in all its forms is an emotional thing. Cold reason must prevail above all else. I, for one, will never allow myself to be overcome with the illusion of it lest it bias my judgement."

"Then you would be nothing more than a brain without a heart, and I know you too well for that. I know you care, I have seen evidence of it many times."

"I do not."

"Rubbish. You say you do not love music and friendship is nothing more than an illusion, very well. But what of me? How many times have we have nursed each other through injury and illness. You care for my well being just as much as I care for yours."

He stared at me seriously for a moment before his eyes flicked back to the people walking by. "There is only one thing I care about, and that is my work. Through close proximity and availability, my work involves you. The only interest I have in your health is based on advancing my own self interests."

I sat quietly.

"In that case, I can't but agree with you." I said finally. "Love is an absurd thing and we would all be much better off without it."

This time when I stood up Holmes did not stop me.

I walked back to Baker Street alone.


	10. A True Friend

**A True Friend**

In 1883 John Watson bought Sherlock Holmes a gift.

* * *

_Regarding the book:_

_The Authentic __Life of Billy the Kid, by Pat Garrett_

...

It was not that I had forgotten it. Nor is it that I did not think on it much, for the inscription was often on my mind. The book itself was bought on a whim. I had entered the bookseller's just as the American was leaving; the man had just sold it to buy something new for his travels home.

"Is that about the American outlaw?" I asked.

Old Harrison, the bookseller, grumbled something unintelligible as was his custom, and I opened the cover to have a look.

"Biography and first-hand account," I read. It was almost as if fate had contrived to place this volume in my way. Did I not live with a man who kept portraits of condemned criminals on his walls? Yes.

To be honest I was not looking to purchase anything more than an entertaining novel for myself to enjoy, and I could not afford to buy two books. But I am often impulsive and sentimental. Impulse and sentiment won out; I bought the book as a gift.

What I wrote on the inner cover was not nearly as impulsive as the purchase had been. For months I'd been thinking on ways I could express my heartfelt feelings, and I wasted no time writing them out in an inscription on the leaf page. An inscription seemed the perfect medium with which to do so, it was personal yet not uncomfortably intimate. What I did not consider was just how exactly I intended to present the book. There was no occasion forthcoming to warrant such an indulgence.

The next day I left the book on my desk. Perhaps I should wait for a holiday to present it? The book remained untouched for a week, and then a month. After that I placed it on my shelf, and there it stayed.

Six months went by, and Christmas came and went. How could I have explained a book given at Christmas with a personal inscription from six months earlier?

And so the years passed. The words I wrote remained hidden within.

I never read it. It was Holmes' book. I always did intend to give it to him eventually, I simply hadn't found the right time yet.

The book moved with me when I married. While I enjoyed married life and saw my friend only rarely, I looked at it fondly as a reminder of days past.

Then for three years, I could not bear to look at it at all.

Even after, I could never look at it the same way. The inscription within no longer represented a secret acknowledgement of my inner feelings, but rather my own cowardice for not having said what was in my heart while I'd still had the opportunity.

How many men are fortunate enough to be given a second chance to make amends?

I was, but I did not. The book returned with me to Baker Street and resumed its former place on the shelf in my little room upstairs, and there it stayed for another ten years.

...

I am glad that it is still not too late.

In several days' time, I will be Doctor Watson of 221b Baker Street no more. Crates of our belongings (after so long it hardly matters what belonged to who) line the room. Holmes assured me the cottage he bought will be more than adequate for both our needs, and I take his word in this as I do in all things.

Sitting by the fire in my favourite arm-chair, and beside me Holmes sitting similarly in his, I imagine we are both lost in memories of the past.

The one thing I did not pack is the book; it is on the table beside me, and I feel ridiculously nervous. After all this time, am I really going to do this now?

"Are you familiar with Billy the Kid?" I ask.

"The American?"

"The one."

"No more than his name."

He isn't interested. I tap my fingers. After all this time, I remind myself, it is not the book that matters. "I came across this at the book shop. I had a passing thought it may amuse you." I pass it to him and he accepts.

As I already ascertained, the book itself is of little interest to him. These days it is not uncommon that we surprise each other with small presents now and then, and so there is no awkwardness anymore in presenting such a gift. All my best writing supplies have come to me through similar small gestures from Holmes.

He flips through the pages, alighting on one and pausing a moment or two to read a paragraph, and then as he is about to place it down beside him the sight of ink on the front leaf catches his eye.

The amount of time he spends looking at the inscription is much longer than the time he spent looking at the typed page.

I know what he is reading.

_My dear Holmes,_

_When I returned to London, I had thought my adventures over. Little did I realize they had not yet begun. Thank you for all that your companionship has brought. In the years to come, may we look back on a life well lived, and remember the worth of a true friend. _

_Yours always, John Watson 1883_

Today, I wrote one thing more.

_Now as much as ever, John Watson 1904_

* * *

_**A.N.**: _Happy Valentines day.

Inspired by a similar book I have sitting on my shelf with an inscription to a friend written in 1995.  
We are still best friends, maybe one day I will be as brave as Watson. :)

Thank you play_your_song for the beta. :)


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